"This is Detective Olivia Benson from the Special Victims Unit. I'm calling to see about the condition of a young man involved in one of our investigations." Olivia paused for a moment. "Tommy Dowd. He was burned and in the ICU. Oh. Thank you for your help." Olivia snapped the cell phone shut and glared at the sandwich her partner offered.
"What'd the sandwich do to you?" Elliot dropped it on her desk.
"Tommy Dowd died last night."
"Son of a bitch."
But as SVU Detectives Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler were glaring moodily into space, Tommy Dowd was easing his way through the darkened streets of New York, shivering with cold, lips as blue as the hospital scrubs he was wearing. He needed to find clothes, and he needed to find them fast. Then, he needed to find work and somewhere that wasn't the side of a dumpster to sleep. He sighed. At least he didn't have to worry about the police finding out about his record. As far as they were concerned, as far as anyone was concerned, Tommy Dowd, high-price hooker, was dead.
Two weeks and far too many creepy, but well paying, customers later, found Tommy trying to squeeze himself into a pair of black jeans that fit him like a second skin, so he could meet the john who was going to pay for his rent this month. He pulled on his shoes and went to the suitcase in the corner that substituted for a closet. Tommy pulled a pale blue, silk shirt over his head, studying his reflection in the mirror. He quickly ran his fingers through his hair one last time, before turning and hurrying out the door.
"Hello gorgeous," came a voice from behind him.
Tommy resisted the urge to shudder, instead pasting a sultry smile onto his face as he turned round, "Hey there…"
As Tommy followed the john up the stairs to the hotel room, the john spoke, "You got a name?"
"People call me lotsa things… but you can call me Tommy…" he replied with a mental eye-roll, giving the john a smile as he was ushered into the room.
Tommy's smile faded as he saw what awaited him in the room. There was leather everywhere. Whips, blindfolds, manacles, chains. Tommy's eyes widened. Goddamn! He spun on the john, who was eyeing him off hungrily.
"What the fuck is this?!" he yelped.
The john's predatory look turned into a frown, "You're getting paid for it, so I'd do something more useful than bitch with that pretty mouth of yours if I were you."
Tommy shook his head, "The hell I will. I ain't into this. Looks like a whole herd of cows gave their lives to spice up your friggin' sex life! No goddamn way! I'm outta here."
Tommy turned away and headed for the door. A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him back round. He glared up into the furious john's face, then gasped and doubled over, gagging, as a knee was brought up hard into his stomach. Tommy struggled, scowling up at the john through watering eyes.
"I paid for you, you cheap slut, so you will do what I goddamn want…" the john snarled, hauling him up by his collar and dragging him over to the bed.
Tommy heard a quick ripping sound as he was tossed unceremoniously onto the covers. He had a fleeting, hysterical moment to think, 'He ripped my silk shirt! Damn, that cost me $50!' before the john was on him, pinning him to the bed. Tommy brought his hands up, pushing at the john with all his strength. He yelled, screaming at the top of his lungs, hoping that the noise would at least bring hotel security running.
Pushing the john away again, Tommy managed to work a knee up between them. He shoved his hands against the john's face, still yelling. So focused on getting the enraged man off him was he, that it took him a few seconds to notice that another screaming voice had joined his. His head snapped back to the john and his jaw dropped, a hysterical half sob escaping him. The john was screaming, although shrieking probably came closer, back bowed in agony, hands clawing at the air near Tommy's own hands.
Tommy reluctantly dragged his eyes down to his hands. And nearly passed out. Now he knew why the john was screaming. He yanked his hands away from the john's face, barely noticing as the john slumped sideways, clutching his face, curling into himself and whimpering. Tommy was too busy staring at the ice blue flames… oh god, flames… that were flowing gently up and down his hands and arms.
He was brought back to reality by a harsh sob from the quivering wreck that was the john on the floor. He stared down at the man, who was facedown, still whimpering into his hands. Tommy swore, reached for the phone and dialed 911. He turned back to the john, watching in horror as the man writhed in agony, eventually flopping over onto his back, hands falling away from his face. Tommy let out a strangled cry, and promptly threw up over the side of the bed. Across the john's face, burnt into his flesh, were two perfectly formed handprints.
Hearing the ambulance's sirens in the distance, Tommy pushed himself onto shaky feet and staggered over to the window. He couldn't be found here. He shot another glance back at the john's singed face and dry heaved. Not after that. He shoved the window open and climbed out, lowering himself down onto the fire escape. He winced as the sirens grew closer. He tried the grille leading down into the stairs but it was locked shut. Tommy swore foully, looking over the edge, eight stories down to the pavement below.
The dark-haired man swore again and eased his lanky frame over the railing, lowering himself down slowly. A sudden sound and raised voices from the room he'd just left made his head snap up. It also broke his concentration and caused his hands to slip from the railing. Tommy let out a terrified shout as he fell, dropping like a stone for eight stories…
… and landing in a perfect crouch, totally unharmed.
Tommy straightened slowly from the deep crouch he had landed in, carefully shaking out each and every joint, eyes wide with shock, "The fuck?!"
He looked up at the fire escape he'd just fallen from, then back down at his hands, "You gotta be kiddin' me… What the fuck is this?! I ain't no friggin' Superman!"
Tommy flinched back against the fire escape's railing as an unearthly howl ripped through the air. Holy… was that the john? He shuddered, fervently wishing it wasn't. He wouldn't wish what had happened to that man, what he had done to that man, on anyone. He knew only too well the agony it caused. His head snapped off to the side and he bared his teeth involuntarily as another howl cut through the night. Tommy blinked, putting a hand up to his mouth and hesitantly poking at his canines.
"The hell?" he muttered, shaking his head and jogging away from the apartment building.
He hadn't even gone four blocks when he was tackled hard into a wall. Tommy's head slammed into the bricks, making him see stars for a moment. He instinctively lashed out with a fist; terrified it was another furious john. Or worse. The logical part of his mind scoffed at that. Unless it was the cops, there was nothing worse. Tommy staggered to his feet, turning around to see his attacker. His jaw dropped. Snarling furiously at him, ducking and weaving as it hissed, was what could only be described as a monster, a demon.
"Aw hell no…" Tommy moaned, backing away from the growling creature.
The demon let out another feral shriek much like the ones he had heard by the apartment building. Tommy jerked backwards, hands flying up in front of him. A strangled yell was torn from him as his hands tingled slightly, glowing a faint blue, before they burst into the same ice blue flames that had scorched the john's face.
"No, no, no…" Tommy swore and shook his hands, clenching them into fists in a desperate attempt to get rid of the flames.
His distraction was all the opening the demon needed. The creature let out another ear-splitting howl and threw itself at him. Tommy let out a decidedly undignified squawk and dodged left. The thing skidded after him. Tommy tried to run, turning into an alleyway, but found himself backed up against a dumpster, flames still licking up his arms.
"Shit… this is bad, bad, bad…" he hissed, eyes darting frantically around the alleyway, before they landed on his hands, still covered in ice blue fire.
Tommy glanced down at his hands. He bit at his lip, worrying it between his teeth. His eyes darted back up to the monster advancing menacingly on him. With a muttered curse, Tommy threw all caution to the wind. He let out a yell every bit as feral as that of the creature that was cornering him and flung out his hands.
Tommy's jaw dropped and he stood in the alleyway in stunned shock, as two ice blue fireballs shot from his hands and hit the monster head on. He shook his hands absently, watching in morbid fascination as the demon shrieked and writhed in agony, dying, burning alive. He jerked slightly as the creature abruptly stopped screaming, dropping into a pile of ash on the pavement. He dropped his gaze back down to his hands, which had returned to normal, then turned his eyes back to the ash pile in the alley.
"Uh… huh…" he blinked.
New York City's newest and most reluctant hunter turned away from his first kill and hurried away into the night, shaking his head at the strangeness of it all. He wandered up and down the streets of the city that never sleeps, dazed, images of the night's events floating constantly through his mind. It took the sudden blaring of a police car's siren to haul him out of his reverie.
"Shitshitshitshit." Tommy cursed as the hairs on the back of his neck tried to migrate to his ear. "I so don't have the time to deal with this right now. Not to mention I don't want to in the first place."
He pressed himself into the shadows as the cruiser drove past. Of all the times for him to spot the cops, it had to be now, when he needed the money most. He carefully stuck his head out of the shadows, not seeing any sign of the cops. Tommy eased his head and shoulders out of the darkness, moving back to his spot on the corner.
"Hey! Hey you! NYPD!"
"Oh fuck!" Tommy hissed, before taking off into the night again.
Tommy ran, hearing the startled yells and the sprinting steps of the cops behind him. He jumped up the first flight of a fire escape and slipped inside the first building he came to, a fancy apartment building. An eerie wail careened off several walls and Tommy sprinted down the narrow halls towards the source.
"Wait. What the fuck am I doing? There's no need to get involved." He slowed down and banged his head against a convenient wall. Another wail sounded and Tommy cursed again. Skulking in an empty room, Tommy listened to the pair of NYPD cops banter back and forth as they searched the hallways.
"Come on, Bernie," the long-suffering voice of one cop said, "Do you really wanna be chasin' some rentboy through a hundred people's homes at 3am?"
"Just doin' my job, Flack ole boy, just doin' my job," came his partner's voice.
"McCall..." the first cop, Flack, whined, "Come on, man..."
Tommy breathed a sigh of relief when the cops moved past him and down the hall. His head snapped up, eyes wide, as another chilling wail cut through the air. The demon. The cops were walking straight to it. Shit. Tommy froze for a moment, torn.
"Goddamn..." he hissed between his teeth as he took off after the cops.
A sudden thump had the two cops spinning on the door to a janitor's closet. McCall gestured to the door. Flack nodded, drawing his gun, McCall a beat behind him. The two veteran cops moved slowly towards the door.
"In here." Flack motioned his partner to cover the other side of the door. "NYPD! Open up! This is the police!"
He rapped on the door three times and waited for a response before letting his partner kick the door open and step back to let the other man in first.
Flack trained his gun on the scene in front of him, brain refusing to believe what his eyes showed. "What the hell? Holy mother of…" He stared at the monster skulking in the corner of the front room.
"Flack? What?" McCall came around to his partner's side and swore. "What the hell's that?" The demon looked around at the noise, the small motion setting the cops off. Both officers shot full magazines at the thing, stopping only when their guns locked back empty and the demon took the opportunity to escape. It shouldered past the cops and scampered down the thankfully empty hallway.
Flack cursed again and ran after it, reloading on the fly. "Flack! Where the hell're you going man? Don't follow that thing!" Bernie wavered, torn between protecting his partner and keeping his skin safe from the demon. "Shit, shit." He ran the opposite way of his partner and radioed for backup from a "very large, obviously deranged man high on some sort of cocktail."
Tommy flinched as he heard guns firing after the thing. Oh bad idea, really bad idea. He put on an extra burst of speed. Tommy dodged around a potted fern, running smack into what felt like a solid brick wall. He stumbled back, slightly dazed as the brick wall brushed past him and carried on running. He righted himself, looking over his shoulder, jaw dropping. That was the other cop!
Flack kept on shooting, emptying round after round into the creature that just would not die. He could hear Bernie doing the same. Without warning, Bernie's shots stopped. Flack swung his head over his shoulder, cursing as he saw Bernie take off into the night. Fuck. Looks like he was on his own for this one. Damn you, McCall.
"No, don't! Bullets aren't going to hurt it!" A lanky, dark haired man skidded around a corner and ran all out towards the police officer and the cornered demon. "That's just going to piss it off."
Flack spared half a second to blink at the young man who'd settled himself into a fighting stance slightly to the side of him, leaving the officer's line of fire clear, despite his words. "And what are you going to do? Kung fu it to death?" he asked, fear for both their lives and worry for his partner making his words sharper than usual.
"Something like that. Try not to let us get too close to you." The man, young man, Flack amended, sized up the demon and advanced slowly.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Tommy. You can call me the Green Ranger if you want." He closed his eyes and tried to recreate the feelings he'd felt dealing with the john who'd tried to go too far. The self-imposed distraction proved to be a bad idea as the demon rushed across the room and hit him squarely in the chest, throwing him into a wall. Tommy wheezed but got up slowly, anger in his eyes. "Now that just wasn't fair, you ugly bastard."
He charged the demon and the two combatants spent the next few minutes trading blows as Flack tried to stay out of the way and keep his gun trained on the demon without sweeping the human. The demon seemed to get most of the good blows in and the human- Tommy's movements grew slower and more uncoordinated.
Flack watched, more and more horrified as the demon gained the upper hand and slammed the young man into a wall, catching him by the throat and suspending him several inches above the ground. He cursed and threw all caution to the wind, firing at the demon, trying to injure it enough to get it to drop the man. As predicted, the bullets had no effect on the demon, save for drawing its attention away from the dying man but not releasing any pressure.
Flack threw his gun at the demon in a last ditch effort and grinned triumphantly when the demon lifted his hand to swat at the metal object. Tommy drew a quick, wheezing breath as the pressure lifted and seemed to slump down again, the breath giving him enough energy only to pass out. The demon roared in a final, vicious victory and leaned over the young man again. Flack watched helplessly and cursed his partner for his absence.
As Flack continued his tradition of watching, the young man's hands seemed to begin to move on their own accord, as the rest of his body was limp. An icy blue light began to flow from the center of Tommy's hands to his fingers to rush through the demon's body and leave glittering trails of a liquid icy blue fire. The demon screamed, trying to break contact with the young man's hands, but the fire only intensified in colour and streamed more frantically through the demon's body.
Tommy's hands fell from the demon's body as it burst into the same colour flames and collapsed into a mound of ash on the floor. The young man fell on top of the pile as the demon's support vanished, sending a cloud of ash rolling across the floor.
"Eat that motherfucker." Flack grinned grimly and rushed across the trashed room to check on the young man.
"Hey. Hey kid. Wake up." He gently patted Tommy's cheeks and pried open his eyelids to check for brain damage.
"Don' hafta… That hurts." Tommy groaned as the light was unwillingly let into his brain. "Oh, god. The pain."
"Be a little more sarcastic about it, and I'll think you were just fine."
Tommy sat straight up and wavered as his abused body protested the movement. "The demon. Is it gone? Did it escape?"
"You killed it, it's dead." Flack pushed the young man down again. "But you got your ass pretty well kicked. For a while there, I thought you were dead. You probably should get to a hospital."
Tommy, whose eyes had been drifting shut, shot up again. "No! You can't take me to a hospital."
"Alright, alright." Flack soothed, supporting the young man as the rush of adrenaline faded. "I'm gonna make a wild leap of faith here and assume you don't want to be involved with the police report either.
Tommy shook his head, breathing out a murmured, "Nuh-uh…" as his eyes drifted closed again.
Flack sighed, gazing sympathetically down at the lanky young man in his arms. The young man who had effectively risked his life to save Flack's own. Something a partner should do. Something his partner hadn't done. Now he was in an awkward situation. All his cop training told him to take the boy down to the hospital, wait for him to wake up and then get a statement from him to make an official police report. Everything else inside him screamed at him to just let it go. Take the boy home to Emma, his wife, and let the police report write itself.
Flack groaned to himself, before easing Tommy's head back down to the floor. He shifted himself into a crouch and carefully scooped the young man into his arms, cradling the dark head against his chest. He moved out into the night, looking for the cruiser and his partner. He spotted the empty cruiser and scowled. McCall was nowhere to be found. Flack heaved another sigh and fumbled the back door of the cruiser open, gently easing the still-limp Tommy into the backseat. He shut the door carefully and dropped himself gracelessly into the driver's seat.
"Emma's gonna kill me…" he mumbled to himself as he pulled out into the New York City traffic, glancing back into the rearview mirror as the young man stirred restlessly on the backseat.
Don Flack pulled the cruiser up outside his apartment, resting his head on the steering wheel for a moment, "Goddamn," he muttered, before climbing out, checking the area around him was free of prying eyes and carefully scooping Tommy into his arms.
The young man shivered, twisting slightly, mumbling, barely coherent, "Don't… don't touch… me…"
"Hang on, son, nearly home…" Flack blinked in surprise, nearly pausing; as he realized he'd just referred to this kid he'd known for less than an hour as his son.
He shook his head, carrying on up the stairs, kicking at the door with his foot. The noise brought his wife running. The door slid open on the chain, one of Emma's soft brown eyes peering out at him. He almost smiled, before remembering that, yes, he was still carrying a half-dead rentboy in his arms. The lone eye widened and the door swung open. Flack pushed past his wife, half-wincing in the knowledge that she would make him regret it later. He carefully placed the still-twitching Tommy on his couch and blanched as the dark haired man instantly curled in on himself whimpering over and over.
"Please… don't touch me… don't…"
"Donald Michael Flack!" the man in question winced at the anger in his tiny wife's voice.
"Emma, sweetheart…" he pleaded.
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me..." Emma Flack raised herself up to her full five feet one inch, "Why is this boy here, Donald?!"
All traces of anger faded out of Emma Flack's eyes and voice as her husband explained the story of how the young man had saved his life. Don Flack didn't leave anything out. He told the story demon and all. Emma's face paled slightly as she realized just how close she came to possibly losing her husband. The small woman turned to look at the lanky young man currently draped over her couch. She turned back to her husband, an unreadable look in her eyes.
"Get him off the couch, Donnie."
"Emma…" Flack protested.
Emma held up a hand, "I can't lift him. Get him off the couch and put him in the guest room. He'll wreck his back sleeping there," with a decisive nod, she bustled off to put new sheets on the guest room bed.
Flack gathered the young man off the couch and prepared to follow his wife. He winced as overstressed joints popped and muttered insults at their heritage.
"Emma, I have to get back to the station, at least for a little bit. The Cap's gonna want my statement at the very least. Are you going to be okay here?"
Emma straightened up from smoothing the sheets in the guest room and helped her husband arrange the young man on the bed. "I'll be fine here by myself. Go."
"You sure? I don't want you getting hurt."
Emma raised an eyebrow and Flack nodded quickly. "Right. You'll be okay. I'll see you later in the evening. Bye. Love you." He beat a hasty retreat and wondered which would be worse, the reaming from his captain or the eyebrow from Emma.
"Officer Flack. If you fired your weapon enough to discharge two magazines, where are all the bullet holes?"
"I don't remember where I was when I discharged my weapon. I smacked my head on the floor when the guy ran out of the room."
"Alright. Get outta here. You can do the paperwork and IAB day after tomorrow."
Flack heaved himself to his feet. "Thanks Cap." He passed McCall waiting in the hall and stopped. "Bernie."
"Don't Donnie… Just don't."
"MCCALL! My office. Now!" Flack watched his friend trudge away, head low, and sighed.
He made his way out of the station and to his car, still thinking of the young man with the icy blue fire. He dropped his cell phone trying to dial home.
"Hello?"
"Hey Emma. How're things?"
"The boy is fine." She emphasized, drawing Flack's unwillingness to call the situation for what it was. "Although 'fine' is a relative term. What the hell happened Don? Bruises everywhere, more than half strangled to death, broken ribs, way underweight, and… Don… when you dropped him off, there were burns on his hands. But they're completely healed now."
"Okay sweet. I'll explain everything I know when I get home. If he wakes up at all, call me. And get the Browning out of the gun safe."
"Donald Michael Flack. I am not going to shoot the boy. You brought him here so we could help him." Emma scolded.
"I just want to keep you safe."
"I know. I'm not getting the gun. Love you."
"Love you too."
Flack made the rest of the drive as quickly as traffic would allow, one eye and ear on the cell phone sitting on the passenger's seat. However, the call never came and Flack rushed into his house, not sure what to expect.
Emma standing in the kitchen, cooking a vat of chicken noodle soup was not high on his list of possibilities. She smiled at Flack as he tried to be inconspicuous about looking for the young man.
"He's asleep. Has been since he hit the bed." She smirked at the older man.
"I didn't ask…" he protested.
"No, but you had that look when you came in. You were doing the police sweep-y thing." Emma stirred the soup serenely.
Flack sighed. "Okay, I'm beat. I know it. I'm going to go check on him now, to see if he's really asleep." He waggled his eyebrows at his wife and left the kitchen.
The young man was passed out in the guest bed, face flushed and hair wild. He slept the better part of the night and woke up screaming.
"Tommy? Tommy, it's okay. You're safe. My name is Emma Flack. My husband brought you home." She reached out to smooth the sweaty hair off Tommy's forehead.
"Don't touch me. Please." Tommy's voice was hoarse, but the plea was heartfelt. "I don't know… I don't know what could happen."
She nodded and softly sung the young man back to sleep.
Tommy slept the next day and woke up enough for formal introductions that night.
"Who are… Why am I here? What happened? Did I …hurt someone?" Tommy looked back and forth between the Flacks, blue eyes wide and worried.
"No, no. You didn't hurt anyone. You saved my life and almost died for it." Flack answered.
"Why aren't I in a hospital? Or a psych ward? Why did you bring me to your home?"
"I don't know." Flack answered honestly. "Tommy- your name is Tommy, right?"
The young man nodded. "Tommy Dowd."
"Truthfully, I don't know why I brought you home. You ran after me when my partner ran away. I figured that deserved more than a 'thanks kid' and a slap on the back. Plus it seems like you've got some pretty big secrets to keep."
Tommy yawned, despite himself. "Sorry," he smiled shyly. "That wasn't quite the thank you I had in mind."
"You can worry about that later." Emma broke in. "You need to sleep."
Tommy looked at the slight brunette, wonder in his eyes. "You sang to me? When I was sleeping."
"You were having awful dreams. It calmed you down."
"That's the first time someone's sung me to sleep." Tommy whispered and yawned again. "Sorry." He said sheepishly.
"Sleep. We can talk later." Emma stood back, waiting for Flack to leave.
The older man smirked. "I wouldn't argue. She fights dirty."
Emma slapped him on the arm. "Out. I'll bring food the next time you wake up, Tommy." She closed the door most of the way and settled in the recliner, book in hand.
Tommy glanced at himself in the mirror. He then shot a wry look at the jeans he'd been wearing the night he'd come to the Flack's. It was only two days ago, but he seriously doubted he'd fit into them now. Emma Flack had been feeding him as though her life depended on giving him his next meal. He glanced behind him as he heard a knock on the door.
"S'open," he called out, holding the jeans up against his body.
"You okay?" Flack closed the door behind him.
"Yeah. I heal fast." Tommy smiled up at the other man. "And I've had more food in the past two days than I think I've had in the last two years."
Flack smiled at the mention of his wife's well meaning, if overbearing tendencies. "What are you going to do now?" he asked, smile dropping away.
"I don't know. See if my apartment's still mine. Try and work, get some money. Stay outta your way from now on." Tommy stared at his hands. "Probably pretty soon. I don't want to intrude on you and your wife's kindness."
"Like she'd let you leave now." Flack snorted. "You're welcome here for as long as you need. Even after you get your feet under you, the door's still open."
Tommy shook his head. "I shouldn't stay much longer. 'Specially with you being NYPD and all."
"I checked your records. You're dead Tommy Dowd. And I think I know why you like it that way and why you're not challenging that; trying to change the record." Flack met the younger man's eyes squarely. "Emma knows too. We're okay with it. We just want to help you."
Tommy dashed tears away. "I… you- does anyone know you checked my records?"
"No." Flack shook his head. "So, what're you, the Green Ranger?" He joked, trying to bring the light back to the young man's eyes.
"I'm trying. I'm failing. But I'm trying." Tommy said dryly. "I'm better than I was, but still nowhere near Green Ranger status. One day I'll kick his ass."
Both men jumped as the door opened and Emma stuck her head in the room. "You're staying. Dinner's in fifteen minutes."
Tommy blinked as she closed the door again.
"I wouldn't argue." Flack laughed. "I'm sure she'll settle more things over dinner."
Over dinner Emma did indeed settle more issues. "I have some things around the house that need to be done that you can do until you're fully healed. Then we can discuss sending you to school or the future."
"I… what? School?" Tommy dropped his fork. "I can't. I'm legally dead. There's a vindictive madam looking for my blood and, oh, did I mention hordes of demons that follow me everywhere I go?"
"You can legally change your name and we'll deal with the rest if we have to."
Tommy stared at the cop and his wife, both calmly eating their dinner, "Deal… have to?" his cutlery clattered down onto his plate, "You aren't worried about it?" he shook his head in disbelief, "You… you should be!"
Flack nodded, "And we are. But I know, you know and Emma knows, that, as good as the NYPD are," this earned him a snort and an eye-roll from Emma, "There are things out there that we can't deal with, that we will never be able to deal with. And you can. Emma and I decided that we'd rather have you here where we can help you, rather than worry about you wandering the streets on your own."
"And I always wanted a son," Emma added calmly, scooping another helping onto Tommy's plate, "But you will have to change your name."
Tommy blinked at the abrupt subject change from the diminutive woman sitting across from him, "Change my… to what? I think Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are already taken."
He received a smack upside the head for his trouble.
"Ow!" He rubbed his head ruefully. "What was that for?"
Emma smiled sweetly. "No sassing me at the dinner table, eating what I made for you."
Tommy blinked, strangely pleased to be scolded for his lack of table manners.
Tommy continued to eat in silence for a moment, looking lost in thought, "So… changing my name… what do I change it to?"
Emma gave him a look, reaching for the water pitcher, "Flack, of course…"
Tommy's jaw dropped, he stared between the husband and wife team that had effectively yanked the rug out from under his feet. He blinked at them, opening his mouth to say something, realizing he had nothing to say, closing it again, then deciding he really should say something and opening it once more. Flack bit back a smile as he reached over, placing a finger under the young man's bottom jaw, and closed his mouth.
"Flies'll get in…" he told him, completely deadpan.
Tommy was silent throughout the rest of the meal, lost in thought. He moved on auto-pilot, gathering the plates and cutlery without any of the fake protesting he normally would have given Emma, and taking them into the kitchen. He started to wash the dishes, hearing Flack come in behind him and start drying. The two worked in silence for a moment, before Tommy spoke softly.
"Don?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"I wanna change my name…"
Flack stopped what he was doing, holding onto the plate he was halfway through drying, "Already told you, Tommy, you can change your name to Flack. Far as we're concerned, your part of the family anyway, this'll just make it official."
Flack stopped what he was doing, holding onto the plate he was halfway through drying, "Already told you, Tommy, you can change your name to Flack. Far as we're concerned, your part of the family anyway, this'll just make it official."
"No… I wanna change my first name…"
Don put the plate down on the counter, "Why's that?"
Tommy frowned, searching for the right words, "Tommy…" he gestured with soapy hands, "Tommy is the name of a dead, high-priced hooker."
Don frowned, "Hey…" he said warningly, "I've told you about calling yourself that…"
Tommy nodded, "Sorry, but it is… I'm not a…" he shot a sheepish look at Don as the cop coughed pointedly, "I'm not that person anymore."
"So… you wanna change your first name and really leave everything about your old life behind?"
Tommy nodded, "Uh-huh."
Don looked at him seriously, "So long as you don't change it to somethin' ridiculous… I ain't phonin' an office askin' for Ferdinand Flack or somethin' like that," the serious look fell off the veteran cop's face and he grinned at the young man.
The cop then spluttered as he received a face full of soap suds, "What? Can you think of anythin' more embarrassing? Or walkin' into the station? 'Hey guys, this is my adopted son, Ferdinand'? Come on… think of what it would do to my bad-ass reputation."
Tommy snorted with laughter, then sobered up suddenly, blushing lightly as he turned back to the sink, "Actually…"
Don blinked, "Aw hell no… don't be tellin' me you were considerin' Ferdinand?"
Tommy shot him a scowl, "No! Lay off with the Ferdinand for a second, will ya?"
Don raised his hands in the air, gesturing for Tommy to continue, "Floor's yours, kid."
Tommy's blush grew even more pronounced and his voice dropped to a almost unheard mumble as he said, "I… well… I was thinkin'… Donald…"
There was silence from the NYPD cop. Tommy cringed, thinking he'd overstepped the boundary well and truly this time. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why would any NYPD cop want a rentboy named after him? Damn it! The lanky, dark haired man shook his head, then reluctantly turned around to face Don. He blinked in surprise as he saw the hardened detective swipe at his eyes.
"Way to go, Donnie," Tommy beamed at the use of his new name, "Way to make a grown cop cry…"
"No." Emma looked at both the boys. "You can't do that."
Flack shrank back, afraid the diminutive woman would forbid him from taking the name Donald Flack.
She sighed and raised an eyebrow at them in a 'duh' gesture. "You can't both be Don or Donnie. It doesn't work like that. You'll change your name to Donald Flack Jr. but you can't be called Don or Donnie or Donald."
The younger man cut in quickly. "Everyone can call me Flack. That's okay. Really."
Then his eyes widened, "Don't hit me, Emma…" he said, moving out of striking range, "But, seriously, according to all legal matters… I really am a dead high-price hooker."
He got hit anyway. Flack Sr. swore, then grunted as he got hit as well. He traded a wry look with his new adopted son, before turning back to his wife.
"He's right, sweetheart… according to the city of New York, Thomas Samuel Dowd is dead."
Emma frowned at that and sighed, "What are we going to do then?"
Tommy's eyes glinted slightly and he looked down for a moment, before looking back up at the Flack's, "You two are going to look the other way."
Emma blinked, confused, "What?"
Flack Sr. understood straightaway, "That's not the greatest idea, kid…"
"Got a better one? I'm dead remember, not like you can arrest me…"
Emma scowled at her two boys, "Will someone please tell me what's going on?"
Flack looked at her, "Your son," he said, emphasizing the words, "Is talking about buying forged documents. ID, driver's license, passport, Social Security, the works…"
Emma thought about that for a moment, "And how much will that cost… because no son of mine will have to turn tricks to pay for anything…"
Flack stared at her, "You know, this doesn't really count as 'looking the other way', Emma."
"Close enough." She replied crisply. "How much?"
"No."
"Donald Thomas Flack."
"No." Flack shook his head. "I won't let you pay for it. I'll be back before dinner tomorrow." He kissed Emma on the cheek and slipped out the front door.
Emma glared at the closed door for a moment before it reopened and a dark head popped in. "Thomas?" Flack raised an eyebrow at Emma.
"Thomas. With an 'h'. Now go before I change my mind."
"Yes'm." Flack flashed a quick grin at the older couple and disappeared again.
Emma and Don Flack sat in their chairs, silently, glancing at the clock every so often. Tommy… no, Donnie… their son… had said he'd be home by dinnertime. Don glanced at the clock again. He bit back a wince as it clicked over to 11.23. Don hunched his shoulders slightly, sighing, glancing over at Emma's worried face.
He should never have let his boy go. Both snapped their heads up at the sound of soft footsteps by the door. They were on their feet as the key turned in the lock and Flack Jr. slid quietly through.
"Donald Thomas Flack!" Emma hissed, making the lanky man leap in surprise, "Where have you been?"
The newly christened Don Flack Jr. kept his head bent low, "That's probably a question that's best left unanswered," he replied thickly.
Flack Sr. moved forward, carefully easing the manila folder out of his son's death-grip, "Donnie? Come on, kid… how bad were you hit?"
Emma gasped, hands flying up to her face as Flack reluctantly lifted his head. Only one bright blue eye stared back at her. The other was swollen shut, purple and bruised. Smears of dried blood were spread across Flack's pale cheeks where he'd obviously tried to wash it off without a mirror.
Emma immediately hurried off to the bathroom, returning with the first aid kit and a wet facecloth. Don sat the dark haired man down.
"You know she's gonna ask, Donnie…" Don said softly to his son.
"I know… but I ain't tellin'… the less she knows… the less you both know… the better…" Flack replied, wincing as his abused muscles protested.
Emma began lovingly cleaning up Flack's bruised and bloodied face, "Who did this to you, Donnie? What happened?"
Flack remained stubbornly silent, so Don spoke for him, "Emma, let it go…"
"I will not let it go! My son has just come home beaten and bloody…"
Don continued in the same calm voice, "Your son just came home from buying forged illegal documents from God-alone-knows-who at God-alone-knows-where. Let it go, Emma."
"But…"
"Emma…"
With a sigh, the tiny woman bit her lip and carried on with her ministrations. She cleaned the blood of Flack's face, held ice over his swollen eye, bandaged his bruised ribs and soothed him gently, like a mother would, when he hissed in pain.
Two days and Flack was pacing like a caged tiger. "C'mon… I'm fine. I've got to do something. I'm goin crazy here."
"You should have thought about that before you went off half cocked, now shouldn't you have?" Emma glared at Flack's restless pacing. "And it's not like you could do anything for another two weeks anyway. The Academy doesn't start the new class until then."
Flack blinked. "I thought I needed college for that. I didn't exactly have the inclination to get those papers too."
"You're not the only one with connections." Emma held up a sheaf of papers. "Four semesters at NYU."
Flack gaped.
"If you keep making funny faces like that, your face is going to get stuck in that position." Emma thumped the papers against Flack's chest and winced as he hissed. "Sorry hon, I forgot you were still bruised."
"You forgot?!" Flack rubbed his chest. "It's only been two days!"
"Well, it got you to stop looking like a fish out of water." Emma winked.
Flack shook his head and took the papers to read over the classes he'd apparently taken. Then the rest of Emma's words sank in.
"Wait! The Academy?! As in… Police Academy?!"
The small woman nodded, "Yes, can you think of anything better suited to you? With your…" she gestured to his hands, "Unique abilities, you'll be able to fight both demons and criminals at the same time."
Flack blinked, "Point… but…"
"But what?" Emma's eyes glinted dangerously, letting him know that if he dared to bring up his colourful past he would be getting a lot more than he bargained for.
"Nothing," he squeaked, pulling the papers back up and carrying on reading.
Don Flack Jr. sighed, straightening the collar of his shirt and pulling anxiously on the cuffs of his sleeves. He glanced at himself in the mirror. He cringed slightly. Goddamn. Dressed in full NYPD uniform and he still looked like a strip-o-gram. He gave a wry snort at that mental image and opened the door, walking down the hall. He pushed open the lounge room door and let out a startled squawk as he was blinded by a flashbulb. He shot a glare at his adopted father, who shrugged apologetically. Three photos and some tears from Emma later, Flack finally eased his way out of the door and headed down to begin his new life at the NYPD Police Academy.
"Oh lord." Flack muttered, staring at the large building. "What the hell'm I doing here?"
Six months later found Flack anxiously straightening his dress blues yet again. This time for a totally different reason. He graduated today. As he pulled on his shirt sleeves, he frantically ran through the ceremony program in his mind. Then he reached up, adjusting his tie, while he ran through everything that his Captain had told him the day before. He winced. He could barely remember the day before. Ah hell… he knew going out drinking with Morales had been a bad idea.
Flack grinned as he walked back to the table, beer mugs balanced precariously in his hands. Tomorrow he'd graduate. Tomorrow he would be Officer Donald Flack Jr. of the NYPD. His grin turned wry as he remembered Emma's promise of happy tears and the ribbing he'd inevitably get about making his mommy cry. But as he deposited the beers on the table with a few good natured insults to his academy buddies, Flack couldn't help but think that life was good. He blinked down at the beer in his hand. Life was good, and he was well on his way to being drunk. Hearing a familiar song, Flack tapped out the rhythm with his feet against the table.
"Hey, Flack!" Morales yelled to him over the music.
"Officer Morales..." he yelled back, saluting the soon-to-be-cop with his beer.
The handsome Hispanic grinned and gestured to a group of pretty girls on the dancefloor. Flack turned to look. Not his type. But then, anything with breasts wasn't his type. But Morales didn't know that, so he shrugged, grinned at his fellow cop, and made a 'lead on' gesture towards the floor.
Flack and Morales made their way out onto the floor, Morales immediately gravitating towards the group of girls. Turning on the charm, the Hispanic snared one around the waist, pressing himself up behind her and whispering in her ear, making her giggle and blush while her girlfriends whistled and cat-called. Shaking his head, Flack moved away from the group, finding himself a fairly shadowed piece of dancefloor and just letting himself go. He moved easily to the music, swaying and dipping his hips, not paying any attention to the people around him. A small, almost wicked, smile curled up the corners of his mouth. He hadn't been able to dance like this since he'd been Tommy Dowd.
Morales stared, open-mouthed, as he watched his friend move seductively to the music. Goddamn. The man danced better than most strippers. A few things began to fall into place for Morales. Flack's slightly-too-intimate knowledge of the NYC vice laws. And now this. Christ on a crutch! What the hell did the blue-eyed menace do in college?
Flack sat in his seat, head ducked to hide his smirk as he remembered the night before with Morales. The Hispanic could pick up a pretty girl in the Arctic if he tried. Flack's smirk threatened to break into a grin. He couldn't have done so well, and dude, he used to be a hooker! The smile faded abruptly as a previously drink-addled memory forced its way to the surface. Morales staring, wide-eyed, at him while he danced. Flack barely suppressed a wince. Oh Lord. Another fleeting thought pressed itself into Flack's mind. Vice laws. Oh Lord again. Morales had been in that class with him.
The lanky, dark-haired man in the third row arched his back, sighing in relief as the vertebrae popped and cracked, before stretching his long legs out in front of him. The class he was in now was pretty well pointless for someone of his, well, colorful past. NYC's vice laws. Prostitution, pimping, escort services, and the solicitation thereof. He mentally rolled his eyes.
"Are we boring you, Flack?" the senior officer, a veteran who's name he couldn't remember, asked him.
"No, sir," he replied dutifully, sitting up a little straighter.
"Then perhaps you'll be able to tell me and the rest of these nice cadets just what the penalty for prostitution is?"
"Not too sure, sir, I quit the business," the words were out of Flack's mouth before he could stop them, he quickly ducked his head, horrified.
The room exploded with laughter, making even the veteran cop at the front grin, "Yeah, yeah, wise-ass… now you've had your fun, answer the damn question."
Flack was too busy daydreaming to hear his name being called. It wasn't until Morales elbowed him sharply in the ribs when it looked like he wasn't going to get up straightaway that he came back to himself and headed up to the podium face flaming, knowing that he was going to get the ribbing of a century from the handsome Hispanic when he next saw him. The rest of the ceremony passed by in a blur of handshakes, smiles, thank-you's and flashbulbs. He mentally winced at the amount of photos Emma was taking, knowing he'd probably get teased for that as well.
"Flack!" the bellow echoed across the squad room making the cop in question wince.
"Sir?" the lanky rookie got up form his desk and hurried over to his captain.
"You're on patrol… this is Detective Moran," the captain gestured to an older cop next to him, "Do what he says, stay outta the way and for God's sake don't fuck up!"
Flack grinned, "Yessir…"
Flack sighed. He wasn't the same lanky, smiling rookie anymore. He was around Emma, but he felt sure that the tiny woman could see right through him. A small smile curled the corner of his mouth. His momma was good at that. Lost in his thoughts, it took the rookie standing by Flack's desk three tries to get his attention.
"Detective?"
Flack barely restrained himself from jumping in his seat, "Yeah, kid, what?"
The rookie looked at him nervously, shifting from foot to foot, "The results you wanted from CSI, Detective Flack…" the rookie all but threw the folder at him and bolted.
Flack raised an eyebrow after him and opened the folder. Two sentences in he understood why the kid had taken off like a bat outta hell. Flack snarled at the folder in his hands then let out a string of the most vulgar curse words he knew and some he made up on the spot. He glanced up at the suddenly silent squad room. Every head in the room had turned to look at him. Don grimaced then picked himself up and stalked off towards the locker rooms.
Don scowled into the bathroom mirror. Goddamn. Twelve days running. Three days without sleep. And they were still no closer to catching this guy. A frustrated growl made its way up and out of his throat as he splashed water onto his face in a futile attempt to make it look as though he hadn't spent three days trying not to fall asleep. Don glanced back up at the mirror, reaching for a paper towel. With a startled curse he jerked backwards. It was back again.
Ice blue fire glowed in his eyes, where bright blue irises once were. A tingle in his palms was all the warning he got, making him curse again and hurl the paper towel away from him. Don cringed, holding his hands out in front of him, as once again bright blue flames licked their way over his hands and up and down his arms. He yelped, as the flames slid up over the sink, nearly setting the paper towel dispenser alight. He growled, clenching his fists, forcing the flames on his hands back down, but unable to do anything about the fire in his eyes. Never burning, but always there.
Sheldon Hawkes stared at the homicide detective in shock from his position just out of sight behind a row of lockers. He saw the flames start in Don's eyes and watched, his own eyes flaring green for an instant, as the flames curled their way through Don's body before forcing themselves out of his hands.
Hunter… The word whispered through Sheldon's mind. Oh, he knew that now. The healer blinked, green-shot eyes returning to normal. His head tilted to the side, watching as Don struggled to control the fireballs in his hands.
Sheldon winced slightly, as Don's fatigue, his migraine and his aching muscles nudged sharply at his mind. He closed his eyes briefly, waiting until the hunter in front of him got his own powers under control before making his presence known.
"Don?" he called softly, easing his way into the room.
The homicide detective started, swinging round, "Damn it all, Doc! Give a guy some warning!"
Sheldon held up his hands, "Sorry," he said, sitting himself down on a bench, "Are you feeling ok?"
"I'm good, Doc," Don mumbled, not meeting the coroner's eyes.
"I didn't ask what you were like on the firing range," Sheldon returned mildly, "I asked how you were feeling."
All the fight seemed to rush out of Don and he sank down on the bench next to Sheldon, "Tell ya the truth, Shel… I'm a bit tired."
Raising an eyebrow at the detective, Sheldon reached for his wrist, "Tired? Is that cop-speak for 'Goddamn, Doc, I feel like an elephant did the watootsie across my nuts then worked its way up to my forehead'?
The homicide detective stared at the normally reserved doctor for a moment. Sheldon looked back unblinking for a few seconds, before realizing what he'd said and blushing slightly. He shook his head, walking his fingers up Don's temples, exploring his migraine with both his fingers and his power. The doctor let out an embarrassed laugh.
"Sorry," he said, "I did four years on the third watch as an EMT," he gave Don a pointed look and a wry smile, "The amount of cops I patched up… I learnt that when a cop says he's fine, he really means whatever's wrong with him hurts like hell."
Don snorted with laughter, "Comes close, yeah…" he tried to pull away as Sheldon leaned in close to check his pupils, "Lay off, Shel…"
Sheldon sighed, but let Don pull away, "You're running yourself ragged, Don."
Don scowled down at the floor, "No… that murdering rat-bastard is runnin' me ragged. I can't catch him, Shel… Every time I think I have him, he slips away."
"You're no Superman, Don," Sheldon told him softly, nudging the other man's shoulder with his own, missing the way Don's eyes widened at the very words he'd used to describe himself all those years ago.
"You need to rest. You can't possibly expect to be able to hunt this guy if you're dead on your feet," Sheldon continued, gritting his teeth at his almost-slip.
Sheldon got easily to his feet, moving with a grace and silence born of years of working in hospitals. He held out a hand to Don, giving the detective a small smile as he slowly hauled himself to his feet. Don sighed, looking over at Sheldon.
Sheldon raised an eyebrow, before sighing himself. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring of keys, pressing them into the homicide detective's hand.
"There's a cot in my office," he said in response to Don's quizzical look.
He held up a hand, halting Don's protests, "Spare sweats are in the third drawer, don't worry they're clean. The big key opens morgue drawers, don't play with it. The little, silver key opens the office door. Don't touch the microwave, I use it to de-flesh body parts. I'll wake you in four hours. Okay?"
Don could only nod dumbly, too tired to do anything but agree. He let the doctor lead him down to the office. Don paused only long enough to pull off his jacket and shoes, before he flopped down on the bed, asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Sheldon watched him from the doorway for a moment, "Hunt dreams instead of bad guys for a few hours, Don…" he murmured, before shaking his head at the cheesiness of it and walking back down to the morgue.